Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rory bid goodnight to the young woman in the carriage, handing her a hundred dollars for being his escort for the night. In the darkness of the early morning wharf, he caught the glimmer of her smile and a trace of her disappointment, but there was nothing he could do for it.

Nor did he want to.

The only woman he wanted at his side, in his bed, or beneath him was Dell, but for now that wasn’t possible.

With final instructions to the driver, he paid for Miss Spencer’s return to her home and gave another bill for him to collect her again in the afternoon.

Then tipping his hat to the redhead once more, he turned toward the river where the newly-ported
Brighton
, a sidewheeler out of Ohio, gently kissed the dock, and he listened for the carriage to pull out of sight as he made his slow descent.

It was far too early to board. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the
Brighton
’s captain well enough to rouse him or the clerk to ask for the fare south, but Miss Spencer needn’t know that. As far as the woman knew, he was already boarding to leave at daylight. His hotel was a stone’s throw from the wharf, and he would pass the time there while it wasn’t safe to be seen at the docks.

Eying the waiting sidewheeler, he felt the grim twist of his gut. This had to be the worst idea he’d ever had, yet there was no other way.

If the other players in his plan followed their roles, all would be well. Quintus would be ruined, Bartholomew would run the fleet, and Philadelphia would be safe with her future secured.

He was even tossing Kit a bone. Rory chuckled to himself, picturing his friend’s reaction when Miss Spencer would arrive on his doorstep later that afternoon. Sending her to the Wainwrights to receive the rest of her payment for the night was a stroke of genius. The lady was comely enough for Kit to find the money, surely.

As long as Rory kept his distance from Dell, she wouldn’t know what his intentions were, and if she didn’t know…neither would Wainwright and Moreaux.

His brief humor evaporated as guilt gnawed at his insides. Dell’s reaction to Miss Spencer’s news wouldn’t be pleasant. If Dell assumed he’d taken a new paramour, in her eyes it would equal betrayal. Together they’d loved, and he’d promised his protection. He’d meant every word…and more.

When he was with Dell, he was a new man. The way she made love to him, allowing him to chase his demons as he drove into her, spilling his seed deep inside her soft, wet channel—it was the only time he felt complete and unsullied. He’d only ever experienced such feelings in his fantasies before he’d met Dell.

He would give anything he possessed to stay in that time with her forever.

However, her dreams of the future were different, and her altruism made him worship her all the more.

But if he had to break Dell’s heart to keep her safe, he would. Her tears—if she cared enough about him to cry—would assure Quintus they were finished as lovers. At any rate, she shouldn’t assume he was honorable.

He’d never claimed to be.

A new driver waited at the docks to escort Dell to Bartholomew’s the next afternoon. Anyone was preferable to the uncouth Herbert Ottenheim, but an inkling of unease had her clutching her reticule, with her gun inside, a little tighter as they rode through the streets of St. Louis.

She’d left the
Queen
in a bundle of nerves, desperate to talk to Kit and see what he knew about Rory—whether Vivienne had painted the details of Rory’s betrayal accurately or not. Passing Walnut Street where the Pomeroys lived, her heart sped to see a cluster of youths begging money off a shopkeeper. Asa wasn’t amongst them, but he easily could have been if he hadn’t been hiding from Moreaux.

She leaned back in her seat and turned her mind to the street lads, trying not to worry about Rory, which would lead to tears. She’d shed enough of them last night. Instead, the children’s plight gave her something to ponder. Strapping, sharp youngsters like Asa…they had so much promise and yet wasted everything with idle time. It was the same in Posey Hollow. When boys weren’t working for their parents, they wound up getting into trouble. Stealing, fighting and, here on the river, gambling. She’d thought by becoming a teacher she could help children learn to read in a classroom. But what about these street urchins—orphans like Rory or Asa? These port cities were rife with youths who never darkened the doorway of a school with a prim, starchy teacher like Rosemary Hughes. There had to be some way to reach out to those who wouldn’t or couldn’t come to a schoolroom.

Uncommonly determined, both Jeremiah and Rory had sought to better themselves with reading. Jeremiah had come to her for help, while Rory had taught himself to read. But most boys wouldn’t bother. Money was the biggest issue. If they were hanging out at the wharf and on every street corner begging money for food, they wouldn’t use their precious coins to buy books. Thankfully, her mama had begun to teach her before she’d passed away. Then, later, she’d had to trade odd jobs and sell fortunes to have enough money to buy a book she’d wanted, but she’d not had to worry for meals and shelter.

Missionaries and churches gave food to the poor. Perhaps they should teach more children to read. Bartholomew had professed to have a passion for the education of young people, and he had money to boot. If he channeled some of his fortune into philanthropic endeavors, he could put books in the hands of less fortunate children. She might suggest it one day and see what he thought.

Her musings ended abruptly as the carriage arrived at Wainwright’s.

She couldn’t get through the front door fast enough. Ignoring the protocol of being announced—this wasn’t her first visit, after all—she barged into the parlor. Kit lounged casually, wearing shirtsleeves with no coat. Dell’s footsteps faltered, however, when she noticed the young, lovely red-haired woman sitting across from him.

When Kit saw Dell, he sprang to his feet. “Good afternoon.” He smiled warmly.

Dell looked between them. “Am I interrupting?” She tamped down her disappointment that her questions about Rory would have to wait.

Pink stained Kit’s cheeks. “Not at all. Philadelphia, this is Miss Spencer.”

Dell nodded in greeting, noting he’d omitted the woman’s first name. She didn’t look much older than twenty-five, and her dress appeared modest and becoming. Kit knew Dell was coming to play cards with Bartholomew, so it seemed odd he would choose to entertain another at such a time—unless the lady’s visit was a surprise.

“I would like to speak with Philadelphia privately, Miss Spencer, if you don’t mind waiting here.”

“Certainly.” The lady smiled, adding dimples to her cheeks.

Kit invited Dell outside to the garden. The late Mrs. Wainwright’s rose garden was becoming a favorite place of hers. She’d learned the old widower spent the majority of his day napping on the cushioned benches beneath the shade of the colorful maple trees, and she expected his nephew had intended to deliver her to Bart so he could continue his tête-à-tête with the pretty woman. However, today the garden was empty except for a few blackbirds.

Dell clutched Kit’s arm as soon as the door shut behind them. “Did you see Rory yesterday? What did he say?”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “My dear, you look pale—”

Dell shook her head. “I’m fine. I just need to know what’s going on. Vivienne came aboard the
Queen
last night, and she said the most shocking things.”

“That’s unfortunate.” He ducked his head, and red spread up his neck. “I’d wanted to tell you first. Brace yourself for some disturbing news.”

Her gut squeezed. Nothing good could follow that command.

“When I paid a call to the Pomeroys’ house, they told me Rory had taken his things and left. They said they didn’t know where he’d gone, but he’d left Asa in their temporary care.”

“What?” This sounded nothing like Rory. “Did you believe them?” If she’d talked to the couple herself, she would’ve had the truth.

He nodded grimly, keeping his eyes lowered. “He’d given them some money from his savings and bought their horse. Miss Spencer arrived just before I was to come collect you, preventing me from leaving. Herbert has gone back to Memphis or I would’ve sent him instead of Uncle’s driver…but you didn’t care for him anyway—”

“Forget about Ottenheim and who drives! What I need to know is why? Why would he leave Asa? And Vivienne said Rory was at the brothel gamblin’ with a woman, and…” Dell choked back a sob, shutting her eyes to bank the tears that threatened. The worst of it was not knowing what was going on in Rory’s mind.

Regaining herself, she found Kit watching her with concern. He patted her hand. “I’m terribly sorry, Philadelphia. I might gently remind you that although Rory’s decorum in the matter of our duel was beyond reproach, the man is still a con, after all. His gallantry towards us both doesn’t make him any less a scoundrel. Being unscrupulous is what we gamblers do.”

“No. Not Rory. He would never risk his plans. You don’t know him like I do—”

He withdrew his hand from her, frowning, and crossed his arms over his chest. “That might be true, but you’ve only been reunited with him…how long? A week? And he’s had his sights set on a fortune for—”

“He’s not greedy at all. Not really.” She bit her lip to keep from sharing too much. Nothing would make her spill Rory’s secret.

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve come to understand how perceptive you are, my dear. I think you’re a wonderful lady. My uncle respects you, and there’s no greater accomplishment for a gentlewoman, rest assured! However, I think in this instance you might be lettin’ the emotions of your fairer sex override your skills of observation.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The woman inside, Miss Spencer, has come here at the captain’s request. She claims he sent her to be compensated for services rendered last night when she escorted him to all the local gaming hells.”

“What?” she cried with a startled laugh. “Ridiculous.”

“I’m truly sorry to bring you such woeful news about our friend, but Madame LeBlanc’s account only verifies Miss Spencer’s story. Campbell is living a devil-may-care lifestyle—just as he always has in the past—while the rest of us finish this business he started.”

Dell insisted on interrogating Miss Spencer herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Kit, but no one could ferret out truths as well as she could, even revealing the details that people didn’t realize they knew. For instance, when she’d asked the woman about Rory’s gambling, she’d learned he’d spent the majority of his funds in Viv’s place. And while there had been some sort of legal document among the wagers, Miss Spencer had never actually seen any writing on it to know for certain whether or not it was a title of sale for Jeremiah.

Rory had singled out his opponents amongst other wealthy men in the room, as if he’d made plans in advance. Their table conversations had been about Moreaux’s fleet, and at another establishment, Miss Spencer had overheard him inquiring about other ships and their upcoming schedules.

Dell then steered her questions from gambling to the more personal. Miss Spencer revealed that Rory had been introduced to the lady through a mutual acquaintance—a dressmaker. She’d never met him before yesterday.

To Dell’s profound relief, Rory had shared nothing with Miss Spencer but her company. During their rides between gaming salons, the woman had done most of the talking, while he’d only offered a word or two. When Dell asked if she thought she would see the captain again, she’d frowned and replied she had the impression he was quitting St. Louis soon.

Once Miss Spencer took her money and left, Dell rounded on Kit. “What do you make of it?”

He held the dining room door open for her, his mouth set in a grim line. “Exactly as I told you before. The captain is a gambler, and an unrepentant one. He might return. Then again, he might not. His goal was to escape Quintus Moreaux, and he has done so.” He shrugged, then pulled out a chair at the table for her. “We’ll proceed as planned without him.”

The staccato of Bartholomew’s cane announced his presence. Punctual as ever.

Kit took the seat beside her, preparing for another session of cards. Dell leaned to his ear. “I beg you, not a word of this to your uncle.”

He frowned, clearly considering. Then he nodded, his expression reflecting sympathy. “If it would put you at ease, Philadelphia.”

Kit might believe Rory had his own agenda, but of one thing she was absolutely positive—

Rory would never, ever abandon anyone to Quintus.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Wainwrights had their own plans and they no longer included Rory. It was all Dell could do to keep from arguing as Bartholomew ranted about him disappearing in the middle of their scheme. Six days had passed since she’d seen Rory, and even she’d begun to fear he might’ve left St. Louis.

Or that something worse might’ve happened to him.

Bartholomew trusted her somewhat, but she could tell he was keeping a few details of the big game’s preparations to himself. He and his nephew were plotting something of their own, and they no longer followed the same path Rory had blazed for their showdown.

Leaving the old man’s house after a satisfactory, final practice round, Dell hunched down in the barouche. She felt good about her training. The old man knew Quintus’s tells and vice versa. The only difference was Bart had added a few fake ones to lead the monster astray.

Asa had offered to make a holdout device at the Pomeroys’ house, but there was no way Bart could wear it convincingly. He wasn’t comfortable in his own skin, let alone five feet of copper, hinges and straps. No, the fake bluffs would have to suffice.

This was the
Queen
’s last night in the port. In the morning, Dell would either be stepping onto the docks with her valise in hand—or she’d be dead, caught in the gunfire between the two veteran cardsharps.

Either way, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going anywhere with Quintus, and her heart was broken.

She’d exhausted herself and Kit, too, searching the city for Rory. If he was still around, he didn’t want to be found. His actions didn’t make sense to her and bewildered his crew—his loyal, faithful crew—making them angry at the mere mention of his name.

Reaching the avenue that led to the wharf, the barouche passed a wagon. The passenger she knew, though she didn’t recognize the driver. She tapped on Bart’s driver’s sleeve.

“Morris, follow that wagon.”

There was nothing unusual about Frederick heading into the city, but he’d been avoiding her lately. Probably just ashamed for his captain’s conduct, but a niggle of suspicion urged her to keep a watchful eye on him.

Her driver kept up with the slow-moving wagon, and halted as the first vehicle stopped in front of a modest house. Dell waited until Frederick entered the building before climbing down.

The painted wooden sign outside the home read “Miss Elizabeth Hobbs, Dressmaker.”

Dell’s pulse quickened, recognizing the name Viv had given her for the frocks Rory had purchased.

She knocked on the door, and didn’t have long to wait. A black woman opened and looked at her questioningly with a friendly smile. “Yes?”

Suddenly all jitters, Dell made her tongue move. “I-i-is Frederick here?”

The lady nodded and beckoned her inside. She scanned the front room, but they were alone.

“He’s in the back. I’ll call him.” The lady traipsed out of the room, a strand of measuring tape fluttered from her arm.

She felt her pulse ticking in her throat and her feet moved of their own accord, following the direction the lady had gone. Behind the closed door, she heard two voices—Frederick and another man.

Hand shaking, she turned the doorknob and barged inside. Elizabeth turned around at her interruption, and Frederick looked at her with a frown. The other man glanced up at her, his face lighting with recognition.

“Jeremiah!”

Though she couldn’t help feeling disappointment that he wasn’t Rory, the warmth of her friend’s smile offered the first real joy she’d felt all week. She dashed across the room and threw her arms around him.

He chuckled. “What are you doing, Dell? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Me? What are you doin’ here? We left you in Memphis.” She backed out of his loose arms and glared at Frederick. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Frederick planted his hands on his hips. “I only just found out when the driver picked me up at the
Queen
.”

“I’ll go put on some tea.” The seamstress left the room.

“God, but you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Jeremiah rubbed his temple, still smiling. “A foreign man came to the hospital in Memphis and had me discharged. He had a stack of letters with him. It’s not official yet, but he took me before a judge. He asked to have me emancipated, then paid for my fare on a northbound packet. Now here I am!”

Dell frowned. “A foreigner?”

“I reckon he was that German gambler”—Frederick wandered over to a chair and sat—“Wainwright’s friend, the dry goods store owner.”

“Herbert Ottenheim? Are you telling me Ottenheim had you freed?” She frowned, frozen in shock.

“Yes. That’s the man.” Jeremiah folded his arms, and Dell noted how well he looked. His healing face still bore fading signs of Ephraim’s beating. A vest, a linen shirt and breeches had replaced his work clothes. “He brought me here and offered Miss Hobbs some money to let me stay for the week before I move on.”

Rory hadn’t lost him in a wager.
I knew it!

She wheeled on Rory’s crewmember. “Frederick, did your driver say why he was bringing you here?”

He frowned. “No, only that a man had paid him to do so. Said someone was waiting for me, and I would understand when I saw him. I reckon I was supposed to tell you—”

“No,” Jeremiah interjected and smiled crookedly. “Mr. Ottenheim said someone would bring me on the steamboat Saturday as a surprise for Dell.”

Dell cradled her forehead in her palm and tried to sort this confusing turn of events. Ottenheim had no knowledge of her connection to Jeremiah, but the Wainwrights did. Perhaps one of them had done this as a favor for her. Yet they hadn’t mentioned it, and there seemed no reason for the subterfuge. Undeniably, whoever had arranged Jeremiah’s release and return had done everything with the intention of keeping her from knowing about it. But why?

Dare she hope that Rory had some part in this wonderful gesture? Perhaps everything he’d done since they’d parted had been to make her estrangement from him appear more realistic in Quintus’s eyes. Ottenheim would know. He would be able to tell her who arranged it.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Jeremiah’s befuddled voice broke through her rumination, and her cheeks heated with shame. “Of course I am, Jeremiah! I’m so happy for you!” She grinned and squeezed his arm. “And I have so much to share.”

Three pairs of eyes looked at Dell expectantly before she realized she’d caught the last hand. She raked in the cards and straightened them. “What time is it?” She asked the burly man on her right.

“Quarter past eight.” He didn’t consult his timepiece.

The card player exchanged a dry look with the other two men at their table.

What?
she wanted to snap. It was only the third time she’d asked.

She’d stayed out of the games the night before, trying to get sleep, but the surprise of discovering Jeremiah had her mind whirling with possibilities. On top of that, her thoughts were occupied by her plans for Bartholomew.

However, it was their last night in St. Louis and she still didn’t know where Rory had gone.

Quintus’s goons, Balfour and Laughton—who’d returned now that Rory had disappeared—were still spending the evenings searching the gaming hells. One traveler said he saw a man fitting Rory’s description purchasing fare on a packet bound for New Orleans. To no avail, Dell had tried to delay both gamblers another night, hoping Rory might return. Meanwhile, the Pomeroys were taking good care of Asa. The boy was confident Rory would return for him soon.

Dell had been confident herself just a few days ago, but now…

Zeb had called Trap away from the floor to check on some crew situation, leaving Dell to take his place as dealer at a euchre table. With the
Queen
scheduled to leave port in the morning, the crew were preparing for the voyage. None of them appeared to be in any hurry to leave without the captain, either, but the men had resolved themselves to the worst.

The players at her table included one of the ship’s officers, a Mississippi planter, and a prizefighter from St. Louis who also happened to work for the Wainwrights.

Bartholomew had other gunmen.

Dell counted herself lucky she didn’t know exactly which of the night’s customers worked for the brewer, but if she put her mind to it, she could probably figure it out. The prizefighter carried a gun on his hip, hidden beneath his coat. She knew this because the weapon dug into his side, and he fidgeted against the steel’s rubbing. Whenever Moreaux entered the room, Wainwright’s other gunmen would reveal themselves with wary stares.

But where was Moreaux? His absence made Dell restless. As much as she despised him, she didn’t want him out of her sights tonight. Bart would arrive at any moment. They couldn’t afford any unexpected complications. Her protégé might’ve been a high-stakes gambler, but he was no actor. If Quintus did or said anything unforeseen, the brewer could easily give away their plan.

“Miss Dell?”

She’d been so caught up in watching the crowd she hadn’t noticed Zeb coming up behind her. He stood, his pilot’s hat clutched in both hands.

“Did you want to take over for me now?” She rose.

He nodded, wasting no time slipping into her seat. “Boss needs you in the engine room.”

“The engine room?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned to the players. “Whose cut?”

She collected her reticule and dropped a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Why the engine room?”

His eyes darted away from her, and he passed the cards to the fighter to divide the deck. “Because that’s where Mr. Moreaux is.”

Her stomach lurched. Of all the crew, Zeb was perhaps the least valuable on the gaming floor. If Quintus sent Zeb, who knew the machinery better than anyone on board to fetch her, he couldn’t mean to pull her from the gambling to ask her anything about the boat.

Walking along the darkened promenade, Dell slipped her hand inside her reticule and curled her fingers around the gun, feeling the comfort of the trigger. If Quintus had figured out their scheme, she’d take care of all their troubles.

Not altogether different than Uncle Reuben’s moonshine equipment, the engine room was a large expanse of pipes at the heart of the
Queen
. Yet unlike Reuben’s disorderly rubble, the steamboat’s crew kept the area pristine and freshly painted with the floor shining—even in the captain’s absence. Dell felt the weight of sadness in her heart, so common the last few days. Each time she rounded a corner of the tidy ship, she expected to see Rory’s grinning face where he belonged.

Keeping a hand still on the pistol, she glanced about, hearing nothing. The boilers were silent, the circular faces of gauges resting at zero, and the usually sultry air was cool, waiting for the next river passage. Then rounding another corner, she stopped short.

A dark-haired man with powerful shoulders slouched in the officer’s cane chair by the large brass telegraph with his back to her. Quintus stood facing him, and seeing Dell, his silver head lifted with a hellish smile.

“There she is.” He fished in his vest pocket for something.

As she came closer, she saw the two weren’t alone. Laughton squatted in the corner, grinning from the shadows. His gun was holstered, his posture relaxed. Clearly, these fools didn’t consider her dangerous. Nor should they after she’d worked so tirelessly earning her stepfather’s trust.

Quintus produced a cigar and lit it. “I told you I’d find Campbell, my dear. I thought you’d like to come down and welcome him back yourself.” He exhaled in the face of the man sitting in front of him.

Her gut plunged as she came around the chair and looked down into the seated man’s face.

Rory.

At least she thought he was Rory. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair in ropes, and his clothing was the same she’d brought to the Pomeroys a week earlier. But his face was swollen with an ugly gash above one eye, the eyelid puffed shut like a goose egg. His hair—which she had thought dark from behind—she realized now was stained and matted with blood from a second cut high at the hairline, no longer seemed like the same soft golden waves her fingertips itched to touch. His undamaged eye stared at her without recognition.

Miraculously, she hadn’t squeezed the trigger of the gun in her bag, but every nerve in her body screamed two words when she glanced back at Quintus.
Shoot him!

Laughton chuckled at her reaction, throwing her back to her senses. She snapped her mouth shut, and forced her face to relax while her heart slammed her ribs.

“Not very pretty anymore, is he, miss?”

Dell ignored the gunman’s cackling jest and glanced at Rory again. Her stomach roiled with empathy. He watched her through his good eye, his mouth an emotionless line.
Dear God, what have they done to you?

Her body began to tremble with rage and panic. She choked on a sob and willed away her emotions.
No!
She couldn’t lose her wits. Pulling a gun here would be suicide against Moreaux, supposedly a lightning-quick shot.

She took her hand out of her bag slowly, and tried to smile. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was long gone.”

“Caught him at the wharf,” the gunman gloated, and she couldn’t help noticing how remarkably unscathed the man looked.

The last time they’d fought, Rory had worn more of Laughton’s blood than his own. Rory wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have come back without a gun in his hand, and if he’d been armed, Laughton would be a corpse.

“I told you he’d return. Claims he ran through all his money.” Quintus sneered and gestured at Rory with his cigar. “Wants his job back—or so he said. But he won’t say where he hid the boy. What do you think?” He made a wide, cautious circle around Rory.

Realization suddenly sank in, and her stomach lurched.
They need me to read him
.

Dell found the irony of Rory’s timing undeniable with him showing up on the same night Bartholomew was to board the
Queen
and play at Quintus’s table. She surveyed him closer, clinging tight to her bag to keep from reaching out to clutch his hand or caress his cheek. Hell, injuries or not, she longed to throw herself into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck. He looked so good to her eyes!